


Garden Tea Party

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [23]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gardens & Gardening, Love, Shibari, Softness, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23244145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: Spring is finally in the air.The scent of the world is changing again, riper and fresher.In the fresh morning sunlight, Crowley makes a circuit of the garden, taking stock of the plants. Some are already putting forth buds. Others are still bare, but he can see the tell-tale signs of new growth. There are some bare patches and his mind is already whirring with ideas for what he could put in them.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Hunger [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1407112
Comments: 61
Kudos: 168





	Garden Tea Party

**Author's Note:**

> I'd been trying to find a way into this full-body shibari for a while, then Gingerhaole posted her [soft butch fem Aziraphale](https://twitter.com/gingerhaole/status/1236390727866675200) and I was sorted :)

Spring is finally in the air.

The scent of the world is changing again, riper and fresher.

In the fresh morning sunlight, Crowley makes a circuit of the garden, taking stock of the plants. Some are already putting forth buds. Others are still bare, but he can see the tell-tale signs of new growth. There are some bare patches and his mind is already whirring with ideas for what he could put in them.

No weeds, of course.

There’s not a weed this side of the Midlands that would _dare_ poke a single root into his garden. At least not any of the damaging ones. He always keeps a smattering of dandelions, though it’s conditional and they’re under strict orders to be on their best behaviour. The downy fluff always reminds him of Aziraphale’s hair.

“How’s it looking?” Aziraphale asks from the door, where he’s standing with his cup of tea, still in his pyjamas. He spent the morning reading in bed and has only just surfaced.

“Early days,” Crowley says, turning on the spot. “Definitely need some new plants for the beds. Is there anything you fancy? Tulips or rose bushes or something–” He bites down on the word ‘romantic’. “Y’know. Things you like.”

The angel’s lips twitch. “This is your domain, darling.” He sips his tea demurely, like the menace he is. “There’s a lovely nursery a few miles west of Ditchling. The ladies at the coffee morning said they always use it for their spring gardening. We could go. Make a day of it.”

Crowley makes a face. “Because those old busy-bodies know what a sulphate is when it bites them,” he grumbles. Aziraphale’s social clubs are the gentle, cardigan-clad bane of this country existence. They’re all so… _nice_. They bring cake and tea and knitting and Aziraphale positively _dotes_ on them. Even if the nursery _does_ have a good reputation.

“Well, if you’d rather stay in and pout,” Aziraphale teases gently.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he sighs, straightening up with as much dramatic flare as he can. “You’re twisting my arm, angel.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, all wide-eyed innocence. “I’m well-known for my half-nelson.”

Crowley can’t stifle the snort as he dusts his hands down on his trousers, then wrinkles his nose. “I’ll need to change first.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale steps back into the living room to give him room to pass. “Can’t go in look like an amateur, can we? You know, I still have my Brother Francis costume somewhere, if you’d like to look a bit more authentically… rural.”

“Oh, shut it, angel.”

Crowley loves him.

It’s ridiculous how much.

Still, can’t be distracted.

He considers himself, considers the brightness of the day and the growing warmth. Well, it’s a beautiful day and if they’re making a day of it, why not do something a little special? The shiver of the change runs through him a split second before she snaps her fingers.

There can be no mistaking the appreciative expression that blooms on Aziraphale’s face. “That’s a new look.”

Crowley reaches up to gather her hair up at the back of her head. It’s been a while since she’s gone for dresses during the day, but this one feels about right. Summery, little sleeves just curving over her shoulders, scoop-necked, knee-length, a skirt that swishes when she shakes her hips. Black, of course, but with the concession of tiny red polka-dots

“Seems like a nice day,” she says. “Get a bit of sunlight on my legs, eh?”

Aziraphale’s eyes dip down to those very limbs. “Mm. Yes.”

“Oi!” Crowley snaps her fingers, grinning. “Eyes up here!”

The angel laughs again, setting his teacup down on the table. “Perhaps I should try something new too.”

“Oh yeah?” Crowley jabs a hairclip into the messy knot of her hair. “Such as?”

Aziraphale considers himself thoughtfully, then makes a few alterations.

Crowley doesn’t swallow her tongue. Definitely doesn’t. No one could say she did.

Aziraphale – now with more generous curves and softer lines but the same bastard smile – pats herself down. “There we go,” she says and her voice is a warm, rich low alto. “I think this will do, won’t it?”

“Ngk!”

And yep, there’s the bastarding twinkle in her bloody sparkling eyes. “Well?”

“Yeah,” Crowley manages, fighting furiously with her hair for want of somewhere else to put her hands. “Yeah, s’good.” She clears her throat. “You gonna change? Your clothes, I mean? Into some?”

Aziraphale looks down at her pyjamas that are now straining a little at the buttons. “Oh. I suppose I should.” She beams at her. “Give me a moment, darling.”

She bustles off across the living room and down the hall and Crowley sags to sit on the edge of her desk. Oh buggering sodding hell. Aziraphale _never_ went all the way like that. Partially, yeah, for appearances sake or for experimenting, but never like _that_. One time, Crowley could count. One time with… all the bits and all the accessories and everything and he’d been drunk as a monk.

Is this how Aziraphale felt when Crowley unleashed Nanny Ashtoreth on him?

Christ on a cracker, a man– woman– _demon_ could do with a warning.

She takes the opportunity – while very _not_ distracted by the thought of Aziraphale getting changed in the other room – to unpin, repin, swear, unpin, and frantically braid back her hair. She twists the hairband in place just as Aziraphale’s footsteps tap back down the hall, not really sounding any different than usual.

“Find something to wear?” she says, turning and immediately forgetting every word she has ever learned in her entire existence.

Aziraphale is wearing her usual clothes, though she’s carrying her coat over her arm. Including the waistcoat. No. A waistcoat. A different one. One that has been… strategically adjusted and holy shit, Crowley always forgets just what a big girl Aziraphale is when she… when they…

Crowley swallows – not her tongue this time.

And there’s that bugger of a smile again.

“Oh good!” Aziraphale says. “I hoped it would look all right.”

Crowley nods. Bravo, self. Grand gesture, that. “You ready to head out?” she asks and wonders when the hell she turned into a soprano.

Aziraphale offers her other arm. “Shall we?”

Bastard, Crowley thinks happily, taking it.

_________________________________

“Oh these are _lovely_!”

Help, Crowley thinks in a happy daze, as Aziraphale bends over a pot of vivid pink and red orchids. “Those aren’t exactly good in this climate, angel,” she says. “They’d have to be kept inside.”

Aziraphale lifts one of the pots up, tilting it this way and that. “Could we put it on the windowsill in the kitchen?” she asks hopefully. “It really is quite exquisite! Don’t you think they look like tiny wings?”

South-facing window would kill it stone dead, Crowley thinks, trying very hard not to admire the way Aziraphale’s round-tipped fingers gently trace the edge of the delicate petals. If they maybe put it _near_ the window, enough to get some light, but not directly in it, technically might be doable, but orchids can be a bit… stroppy. Little divas, they are. Need the right temperature, right humidity, swoon if they get just a bit too much sun…

And Aziraphale is giving her that wide-eyed imploring look, and somehow her pout is even plusher and pinker and–

“Are you wearing lipstick?” Crowley accuses, aware of the heat crawling up the back of her neck.

“Lip _balm_ ,” Aziraphale corrects. “I always do.” She redoubles the wide eyes and the petted lip and–

Fine. Right. So that’s a losing battle right there.

“ _Fine_ ,” Crowley sighs, waving to their gradually-filling trolley. “But you’re looking after it.”

“Of course, darling,” Aziraphale beams, setting down the plant and leaning close to kiss her warmly on the cheek.

“You,” Crowley grumbles fondly, swatting her away and pushing the cart onwards, “are a nightmare.”

“Oh, I know,” Aziraphale chuckles. There’s something mischievous in it and Crowley tries to apply a stern glare through her sunglasses, but that only makes Aziraphale look even smugger, lips twitching, little dimples curling in her cheeks. “Here…” Aziraphale hurries alongside her and gently nudges her aside with a hip. “Let me.”

“I can manage it,” Crowley insists, determinedly keeping a grip of the handle.

“Darling.” Aziraphale curls a hand over hers and how is it possible her smooth hands are even softer than usual? She’s the same bloody person but it’s like they’re soft as down! “It’s only fair. And…” She leans a little closer, “It would look rather chivalrous, given the disparity of our sizes.”

Crowley’s lips twitch. “So you’re my knight in shining armour, eh?”

The angel beams at her, nudging gently and persistently sideways until Crowley surrenders control of the trolley. Still, she can’t really protest, watching the… interesting way Aziraphale’s much more fitted shirt clings against her arms as she pushes onwards.

And the bloody angel glances back with a very knowing look. “Are you… coming, dear?”

Crowley groans, a low, useless, inarticulate sound, flapping a hand, and Aziraphale just laughs.

Aziraphale in this kind of mood is trouble enough, but Crowley just _knows_ the damned angel can tell her… current definition is throwing everything off. Not in a bad way. Definitely not bad, but Aziraphale has a knack of seeing any number of Crowley’s big red buttons and slapping her hand on them at any given time with the unfortunate side effect of leaving Crowley helpless to be swept along by soft-yet-strong hands and a voice that’s like a full-bodied red wine.

They meander through the garden centre, adding occasional items to their trolley, gravel crunching underfoot, and weave their way through the array of sheds and greenhouses and outdoor decorations. Crowley has been growing more and more tempted to install a wrought iron bench in the garden – especially for days like this – and is examining one when Aziraphale gives a small gasp of delight.

“That sounds ominous,” the demon says, turning with a grin.

Aziraphale has found the water features.

Specifically, a plump little cherub with an urn to pour water into a basin. Which has a pair of ducks in it. Crowley immediately recalibrates, trying to work out where exactly they could fit such a twee piece of decoration.

“Isn’t that the most adorable thing?” the angel exclaims, reaching out to clasp her arm. Because of course she does. There isn’t a bit of angelic kitsch that Aziraphale won’t have an absolute fit over. Especially soft, plump happy angels.

“S’missing something,” Crowley says and – with a surreptitious snap of her fingers – there’s a snake coiled around the cherub’s feet, winding around its ankles.

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s hand slides down her arm to squeeze Crowley’s fingers. “It’s _perfect_.”

And it is. And so is the moment and Crowley can’t help herself, leaning in to kiss Aziraphale on the cheek. “My treat, angel,” she says happily and almost – _almost –_ misses some pointed, disgruntled throat clearing from an older couple nearby. Her hand tightens defensively on Aziraphale’s and she whips around furiously.

Aziraphale’s grip briefly tightens. “No, darling,” she murmurs. “Allow me.”

For a moment, Crowley thinks Aziraphale is talking about the purchase of the fountain, not the judgemental idiots. And then the angel lets go of her hand and easily scoops up the whole bloody thing, all four and a half feet of solid stone, hefting it onto her shoulder as if it’s as light as a sack of feathers.

Crowley makes a… noise. Probably not a good noise in polite company.

And Aziraphale smiles at her – absolute bastard – and then at the throat-clearing arseholes. And then – _oh Christ I love you_ – she raises her eyebrows at the couple, one hand on her hip, the other casually supporting the weight of a solid block of stone.

The couple, Crowley notices through the awed daze, have gone a sickly shade of grey. S’funny, she thinks, how fast they can run, tossing up gravel in their wake, when faced with what appears to be a superhuman lesbian. That’s right, kiddies. Don’t be homophobic pricks or the big butch woman might snap you like a twig.

Stone grates on stone and Aziraphale delicately sets the statue back down. “There,” she says, pink-cheeked and pleased with herself. “I think that’ll teach them a valuable lesson.”

That was amazing, Crowley wants to say. You’re a bloody marvel. I wish I’d had popcorn.

But her words are all out the sodding window, so she does the next best thing and picks up Aziraphale’s strong soft hands and kisses both palms. And Aziraphale curls her fingers to cup Crowley’s cheeks and kisses her gently.

“Shall I fetch a second trolley for our fountain?” she asks, smiling as Crowley rubs her cheek against Aziraphale’s palm.

“Mm.” Crowley plants one last kiss on the curve of the heel of her hand, then lets go. “Hell knows how we’re going to fit all of this in the car.”

“I’m sure she can be accommodating,” Aziraphale says, then steps back. “I’ll catch up with you in a moment, love.”

Crowley watches her go, then looks down at the fountain again. Somehow, she always forgets just how strong Aziraphale can be. She shouldn’t, really. She knows exactly what the angel is capable of. Aziraphale is soft and gentle and yet…

It’s enough to make a girl thoughtful.

A few more laps of the centre later and their trollies are both generously filled. Crowley has no buggering clue how she’s going to fit everything in the garden, but she’s going to.

And they’ve got a garden set ordered which is _definitely_ too big to get wedged in the back of the Bentley. And probably too big for the garden, but one look at Aziraphale demurely reclined on one of the curving seats, her ankles crossed and hands folded on her belly, and Crowley bought it, no questions asked. It has handles, y’see. Little sturdy loops that, hypothetically, silk cords could slip through and hold an angel in place in the sun.

“This ought to keep you busy,” Aziraphale says happily as they trundle their purchases out to the car. “I’m very excited to see how it all looks.”

“You just like seeing me working my arse off in the garden,” Crowley grumbles cheerfully. “Just call me Mellors.”

“Oh _really_ ,” Aziraphale laughs. “I’m hardly Lady Chatterley.”

“And if I showed up in breeches and a homespun shirt?”

Aziraphale gives her a considering look. “Well… I suppose I could be.”

Crowley snorts. “Thought as much.”

With some negotiation, they manage to arrange everything in the car, though the whole thing looks like a greenhouse by the time they’re done. Aziraphale happily rolls to trollies back to the trolley park, but when she returns, she has _that_ look in her eye.

“What’ve you found?”

“They do a cream tea at the tea shop,” she says excitedly. “Their scones are just about ready.”

“Ahhhh.”

The angel pouts. “What do you mean ‘ahhhh?’”

“I mean this was never about the garden, was it?” Crowley locks the car with a snap of her fingers. “You lured me here under false pretences.”

“I would _never_!” Aziraphale’s gasp isn’t nearly as convincing as she likes to think, her lips twitching, eyes dancing as she clutches her substantial bosom.

“Mm.” Crowley’s lips are a thin line, definitely and absolutely not twitching too.

Aziraphale barely lasts twenty seconds of feigned dismay. “They have plum jam, you know!”

Crowley laughs, looping an arm through hers. “ _Fine_ ,” she agrees. “You monster.”

“A monster with cream tea,” Aziraphale says happily. “And,” she adds, leaning closer conspiratorially. “They do a rather good version of that coffee you like. I asked around before I picked this place.”

Crowley really loves her. So much.

So she says as much. “You soft bugger.”

Aziraphale wiggles happily and together, they meander in the direction of the coffee shop.

It’s a lovely place, brightly-lit with broad beams running across the roof and windows all along one wall. Probably a stable or a barn at some point, Crowley thinks as she is shooed off to find a table while Aziraphale fetches their treats from the counter. She finds a table by the window, gazing out at the sprawling lawn.

Spring has always been her favourite of the seasons. Sentimental? Yes, but new life, rebirth, fresh buds and promise poking through the soil. It’s fresh and vibrant and she loves it.

“Here we are,” Aziraphale scoots happily into the chair on the opposite side of the table, setting the tray down. “I found one of those waffles you like! The ones with the caramel inside.”

Crowley expresses her devotion in the dramatic roll of her eyes behind her glasses, accepting the angel’s gift and watching indulgently as Aziraphale methodically cuts her scone into two perfect halves. On one, she layers jam then cream. On the other, she layers cream then jam.

“Diplomatic,” Crowley observes. “Not taking sides.”

The pest of an angel beams at him. “I like to think we have the best of both this way.”

She is, quite frankly, a menace to society and Crowley loves her and loves the way she licks the cream and jam and crumbs from her fingertips. So gentle and fastidious, but with the strength to haul a statue onto her shoulder as if it was nothing.

Crowley takes a scalding mouthful of her coffee, licks her lips, her throat dry. “Angel,” she says, picking up and turning over the stroopwaffle in its packet.

“Mm?” Aziraphale’s rosy cheeks are plumped out with scone.

Crowley tilts her head, lets her glasses slip a little lower, and meets the angel’s eyes. “I’m… feeling adventurous.”

Aziraphale pauses mid-chew as the words clearly sink in. A gift of beautifully soft scarlet rope, an offer, “if you’re feeling adventurous”. And then she smiles, eyes dancing like sunlight on water. “Well,” she says, picking up the last piece of her scone, “I’m sure I can do something about that.”

It’s daft how Aziraphale can make her blush, Crowley thinks, but the pleased look on the angel’s face is… does… makes her toes curl and her heart beat a little faster. “Yeah?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale tops up her cup of tea from the pot. “In the garden, I think. It’s such a lovely day, isn’t it?”

It is and they’re sitting in a busy café in a bustling garden centre, discussing it as if they were talking about putting in some new seedlings. Crowley looks out the window, trying her best not to combust. She jolts when a hand covers hers briefly, squeezes.

“How adventurous?” Aziraphale says, so very gently.

Crowley looks back at her, with those warm hands and the solid strength and the knowledge Aziraphale will cherish her and take care of her. She hesitates, then takes off her glasses and meets the angel’s eyes. “Completely.”

Aizraphale’s lips part, tremble, then she pulls Crowley’s hand up in hers, presses her lips to Crowley’s palm. “That sounds _wonderful_ ,” she breathes, the soft puff of air sending a shiver the length of Crowley’s spine.

Then she lets go and recovers her teacup, as if nothing has been negotiated and they haven’t just– as if this isn’t–

Crowley is pink and slips her glasses back on. 

Aziraphale chatters nonsense as she finishes her tea. About the weather, about a coming garden fete, about a new book she simply has to order. It’s not until they back in the car that she reaches over and squeezes Crowley’s hand again.

“Pears,” she says.

Crowley frowns as she pulls the Bentley out of the parking space. “What about them?”

“I ask you for apples,” she says. “I think you should ask me for pears. Should you need them.”

They’re a good five minutes down the road before the lightbulb flicks on.

“Ohhhh! Pears! Right! In case I– if it’s all– right. Gotcha.”

Aziraphale gives her a half-amused, half-exasperated look. “You know, you could’ve said you didn’t know what I was on about.”

“Angel, if I did that, I’d spend half my time asking what you were on about,” she retorts with a flash of a grin. She keeps her eyes on the road. “So I say pears and–”

“And we slow things down,” Aziraphale says at once. “Your hands being bound may not be an issue anymore, but sometimes, these things can sneak up on you.” She squeezes Crowley’s hand again, gently. “We don’t have to be entirely adventurous until you’re ready.”

I love you, Crowley thinks. “Ha,” she says, “Soft.”

“As a feather pillow,” Aziraphale agrees. “So pears?”

Crowley nods, feeling more cherished than she has any right to feel. “Pears,” she agrees with a nod, absolutely sure she will never ever need them.

If she puts her foot down and drives a little faster, for once Aziraphale doesn’t complain. Okay, yeah, she glances pointedly back at the plants that are somehow managing to slide around, despite a stone cherub guarding them, but she doesn’t actually _say_ anything. Then again, Aziraphale’s eyebrow can be pretty… emphatic when she wants it to be.

And because she doesn’t say anything in the car, she makes her point as soon as they get home.

“We should unpack everything first,” she says.

Crowley groans, kicking up gravel. “Angel!”

The bastarding angel smiles serenely at him, opens the door and hoists the bloody fountain onto her shoulder again. “Don’t fuss, darling,” she says primly. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“Doesn’t suit _you_ ,” Crowley grumbles at her back, then sets about unloading the Bentley.

It takes half a dozen journeys back and forth, around the side of the house or through into the kitchen. Different plants all have their places and Aziraphale is waiting for her on the patio when she carries around the last tray of seedlings.

The angel has set the fountain on the edge of the patio and is standing next to their soon-to-be-replaced folding table, gazing pensively around at the garden.

Crowley hesitates, taking off her glasses, folding them and setting them down. “Something on your mind?” she inquires as lightly as she can, hoping against hope that Aziraphale hasn’t changed her mind.

The angel turns that wonderful smile on her. “Logistics,” she replies. “I was thinking under the apple tree might be quite nice. The grass is nice and even there.”

Crowley follows her line of sight. Under the apple tree. Won’t be the first time they’ve messed around there. She can all too clearly remember Aziraphale pressed up against the trunk, arms bound to the branches. They provide a nice canopy and the new leaves are still small enough to leave the ground dappled with sunlight. “Sounds good,” she agrees.

“Marvellous!” Aziraphale beams and with a snap of her fingers, her tartan blanket is spread on the lawn and the beautifully big coil of red rope is there too. Crowley’s heart rattles off her ribs. “Now, darling, over you go.”

Crowley raises her eyebrows. “You aren’t comin…” Her words trail off as Aziraphale undoes one winged cufflink and drops it on the table with a _tink_. With a smooth twist, two, three of her hand, she rolls her sleeve up, baring her forearm and how – _how?_ – is it that she makes that so much more erotic than being stark naked?

“Is something the matter?” the absolute nightmare asks innocently.

“No. Nothing, not at–” The words die into a groan. The sodding bastard has a second sleeve.

That impish, devilish little smile is playing around Aziraphale’s lips, as if she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing and the effect it’s having.

“Onto the blanket, my dear,” she says, flapping her free hand as if shooing away a naughty cat.

“Why do I put up with you?” Crowley complains, kicking off her shoes and stepping onto the grass.

“Because I’m such an angel?” Aziraphale suggests with a chuckle.

Crowley shoots an eyeroll back at her which earns a delighted wiggle. She steps onto the blanket, trying not to pay too much attention to the coiled rope at her feet. “What now?”

Aziraphale steps down onto the grass too, considering her. “You ought to tie your hair up. I’d hate for it to get tangled.”

Crowley nods, twisting up the braid into a knot at top of her head, pinning it there with a couple of manifested hairpins. “Good enough?”

And Aziraphale stands there, just shy of the blanket, looking her slowly up and down. “I should say so. Quite lovely.”

“Nggh,” Crowley retorts, making a face. “So…” She fidgets. “How are we–”

“ _You_ don’t need to do anything,” Aziraphale is at once in her space, lifting a hand to cup her cheek. She smiles, all sparkling eyes and dimples. “I have such wonderful plans for you.”

Crowley knows she should make some glib remark. S’the way they do things, isn’t it? But she doesn’t. She just sways forward, mesmerised by those eyes, and steals a kiss. “Whatever you like, angel. I’m all yours.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale sounds so delighted by the prospect and at once, Crowley is pulled forward into another kiss. And another. And another that trails off the corner of her mouth, down her cheek, nibbling the corner of her jaw, tugging softly on her earlobe, and – oh fucking hell already?? – stings delicious bruises down her throat.

“Angel…” Crowley breathes, sinking her fingers into down-soft hair.

Aziraphale kisses the bruise she has left, smiles against it. “I’m going to undress you, darling,” she murmurs. “Shall we keep the underwear on today?”

The thought of going without, of ropes sliding in against sensitive, rarely-touched skin makes Crowley’s brain go pfzt. “Underwear,” she agreed, hastily snapping her fingers and adding some. “Yeah. S’good idea.”

Aziraphale leans back, all aglow, and she starts twisting the buttons down the front of Crowley’s dress undone. One. At. A. Time. Slowly too. As if they haven’t been bloody dancing around this for the past hour with the cream tea and the drive and unpacking the sodding car.

“Gnnnn!” Crowley protests.

The gorgeous menace of an angel slips her hand into the gaping dress, sliding her warm, soft palm against Crowley’s ribs. “Oh, hush, darling,” she says gleefully, nuzzling the corner of Crowley’s jaw. “Anyone would think I was holding back on you.”

“S’teasing me,” Crowley grumbles and nips at her ear. “S’all you’ve done all bloody day.”

Aziraphale tsks softly against her throat. “Don’t tempt me,” she murmurs. “If I wanted to tease you, I _would_.”

The threat and promise is both tantalising and terrifying, especially with her fingers playing across Crowley’s ribs as if she can read Crowley’s every thought through her fingertips. Another kiss grazed against Crowley’s neck and she shivers happily.

“Shall we proceed?” Aziraphale murmurs, darting a lick against her earlobe.

Shouldn’t sound sexy, that. Sounds like it should be a medical procedure, but isn’t. Is enough to make Crowley whine and nod and tug at Aziraphale’s hair.

The last buttons are twisted open much more quickly and Aziraphale steps back, using the very tips of her forefingers to push the dress open and over Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley shivers again and it’s enough to make the fabric slither down her arms, dropping to a heap at her feet.

“Oh _my_.” Aziraphale clasps a hand to her chest. “Darling, how… naughty.”

Despite the fact her legs are swaying under her and she’s feeling more and more wobbly with every second, Crowley smirks. They _are_ a bit on the risqué side, not the frothy lace of Aziraphale’s lingerie. Sheer, translucent black fabric with delicate embroidered black and scarlet snakes, one with the tail coiled around one breast, up around her shoulders and down to bite the nipple of the other. The other wraps around her hips, the ouroboros mouth and tail meeting between her thighs.

“Like it?” She doesn’t really have to ask.

Aziraphale gives her a heated look, dipping one hand down to trace the threads of the serpent’s scales. “Playing to type a little, aren’t we?”

Crowley laughs, covering Aziraphale’s hand with her own and pressing it closer. “Says the angel with the winged cufflinks,” she teases, splaying her fingers to spread between Aziraphale’s and pressing both of their hands flush to her knickers.

Aziraphale’s lips twitch. “Touché,” she agrees, sweeping in for another kiss. “I may ask,” she murmurs against Crowley’s lips, “that you bring these out another day, when I can pay more attention to them.”

Crowley leans into her, the scratch of tweed on her skin, the warmth of Aziraphale’s palm as it slips up to spread on her belly, everything about it impossible to refuse. “As long as I get you looking like this again. S’only fair.”

“I believe,” the absolute bastard says, all twinkly, “we have an Arrangement.”

“Gnn!” Crowley groans, batting at her shoulder. “Stop that.”

Aziraphale’s smile brushes her determinedly reluctant one. “You adore it.”

“Not the point,” Crowley grumbles happily.

Aziraphale chuckles, then moves her hands to Crowley’s waist, adjusting her position to the dead-centre of the blanket. “There,” she says and claps her hands together. “I think we’re ready.”

“Been ready for the past hour and a bit,” Crowley retorts with a grin. “Thanks for noticing.”

Aziraphale’s glossy lips curve into a moue with _that_ look plastered all over her face. Still, she stoops and gathers up the rope and Crowley’s throat bobs, watching the loop of red slithers down her forearm, catching on fine fair hairs.

“You remember what you need to say?” Aziraphale prompts as she starts paying out a length of the rope between her hands.

“Mm.”

Freshwater eyes meet hers. “Tell me.”

“Pears,” Crowley manages, though it’s more of a croak.

“Very good,” Aziraphale says with such warmth that Crowley has to take an unnecessary deep breath. She watches, motionless, captivated, as Aziraphale rubs her thumbs along the rope, then steps in close and smiles. “Arms up, my dear. Hands on my shoulders.”

Crowley obeys at once, mouth dry, throat fluttery.

Aziraphale slips her arms around Crowley’s middle, the rope dragging against her bare midriff, rasping so softly it raises goosebumps the length of her body.

“I’m going to get you nice and secure,” Aziraphale informs her without once looking away from her eyes and Crowley is drowning with the solid heat of Aziraphale’s body through her shirt, the hiss of rope against skin, the skim of fingertips creating knots and loops so knowingly despite never once looking away.

Over her ribs, threading under her arms, up and over. The criss-cross over her nape makes her body arch instinctively, lips parting, and Aziraphale – Christ, you monster – drinks in her soft gasp and _pulls._ Like reins. Like a harness. Like something to hold onto, and all at once, Crowley is twined and held by extensions of the angel that are more intimate than limbs and digits and she takes a deep shuddering breath, feels the deeper press of rope against shoulders and belly and ribs and curling around her breasts.

“There.” Aziraphale’s voice is a tangible thing, warm and rich and comforting as the ropes. “Nice and snug.”

Crowley dared a glance down, her world swimming pleasantly. It’s _beautiful_ , an intricate symmetry of cords and knots, outlining all her edges from shoulder to hip, and she can’t help drawing back a hand, tracing the line of it down over one collarbone to the rosette at her heart, slipping her fingers beneath, pulling everything just _so_.

Azirapale cups her cheek, smiles, pleased and proud. “You look _wonderful_ ,” she says and Crowley burns for her, pressing her cheek into Aziraphale’s palm.

“More?” she asks in little more than a breath.

The angel glows. “Of course.” She drops a kiss on Crowley’s lips, then lays her hands on Crowley’s shoulders, dragging them down until her fingers cradle Crowley’s, lifting them.

Gently, she overlays palms to forearms, crossed over Crowley’s middle and humming softly, she weaves and threads rope over and under. It slips beneath loops already there, drawing Crowley’s arms into the gentle cage of scarlet and she breathes shallow and fast, the thunder of her pulse beating against itself in her wrists.

When Aziraphale pulls the rope close, Crowley can’t help swaying. Immobile, helpless, and utterly in the care of those strong, warm hands. Lost in those watercolour eyes.

“Deep breath, love,” Aziraphale murmurs, stepping back a little way.

Breath? Yes. Right. Crowley obeys. Little breath, then it escapes as Aziraphale pulls on a rope she hasn’t even noticed and her feet lift from the blanket. Her heart skips and panic rises, but is calmed by a warm hand on her hip, steadying her.

“I have you,” the angel says, stroking her flank. “Breathe, love. Breathe.”

Crowley tears her eyes from the glowing face and looks, glances and… and yes, giggles. Tree. She’s swaying gently, cradled beneath the branch of their apple tree and Aziraphale is… is… is sliding Crowley’s legs up and over, as if Crowley is another rope for her to knot to her wishes, draping knees over her shoulders, and standing there, swaying, gently, gently swaying, letting Crowley gently gently sway with her.

No need to be afraid. Angel won’t let her fall. Has her. Keeps her safe.

She sinks back into it the ropes pressing to her back, her own hammock of rope and angel. Kisses pepper her thighs and she hums in soft approval, still swaying. Fingers follow the kisses, then the whisper of rope. Teases, drags, bare skin of her thighs. Over. Under, gently tighter.

Shoulder drag, moving from knee to calf. Fingers stroke, teasing, gentle, then rope follows again, brushing over and through the ginger fluff on Crowley’s legs. Tickles, she thinks in a happy daze, swinging gently from side to side.

Another tug, gentle and firm and the hiss of rope one rasping wood and Aziraphale steps back, away, though one hand remains under Crowley’s back, assurance, support. Ropes press at shoulders, at ribs, at hips, at knees, and Crowley sways, rocked by the gentle hand in the spaces between.

S’nice, she thinks. S’good.

Hand is moving again, though. Little more, tracing over ropes and knots and promise and not-quite-done-yet and she opens her eyes, caught in the leaf-green of the canopy and the sunspots in between.

Thumbs brush her ankles, trace around the pointed juts of sharp bone, then the whisper against skin again of lips and fingers and another coil, long and red and wrapping and twisting, taking her loose limbs away, leaving her one long sinuous curling body, draped across a tree, basking in sunlight and the heady scent of chlorphyll.

Kisses touch the soles of her feet like a whisper of a prayer and then the hands drift away and she sinks into it, the warmth, the solidity of her lazing body, draped as she had once been so long ago. Tapered ankles twitch and she curls and uncurls her toes the brush of leaves and warmth against the tips of places that were once a tail.

Wind sighs through the budding leaves and she closes her eyes, listens to the sound of a garden around her, fresh and wild. Sways. Safe. Sssssssssnug.

Some time – long time? Short? Doesn’t know – fingers stroke her cheekbones. Soft, teasing. Lips to her brow. Hair undone, unravelling, unfurling down. Mm, she agrees, eyelids fluttering. Knots untangled like rope. Caressss. Gentle. Swaying, swaying. Fingers stroke. Soft. Smooth.

S’nice.

S’very nice.

She breathes deep, soft, sated, fingers and toes twitching.

Lips to her forehead again.

Sinking – not falling – soft as a feather. Slowly, slowly.

Crowley forces her eyes to open, to see.

Aziraphale like the Colossus, arms wrapped in ropes, lowering her. Not falling. Gentle. Setting her down, blanket and grass, and she kneels to catch Crowley’s head in her palm. Like it’s precious.

“There you are,” she says, bright as sunrise. And her arm is under Crowley’s shoulders, holding her close. Tug here. Tug there. Curling her hand, ropes slithering free, rippling loose and Crowley breathes deep, catching the last of the friction and the pressure, her skin thrumming and warm and she _breathes_ deeper still and sinks, sighing, into Aziraphale’s embrace.

S’long time before they get all the ropes out of the way, loose loops slung all beside them like a different kind of snake. Crowley curls her fingers in it, smiling, sleepy and sated.

“Here,” Aziraphale says, bringing a cup to her lips.

Sweet sharp raspberry lemonade. Tingles on her tongue. Huh. Forked. Hadn’t noticed. She flickers it out, tastes the air, tastes Aziraphale’s contentment and life and fresh blossom.

Angel brushes her hand along Crowley’s arm again, sweeping off the last of the ropes. S’lovely, the pins and needles of sensation following the lines. The scratch of Aziraphale’s nails against the pressed tracks like scales on her skin.

“I took some pictures, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs. “For our collection.”

Crowley cracks her eyes open. “Ngh?”

“Mm.” Angel’s all soft and dopey and s’either a trick of the light or s’a halo glowing around her. “You looked so exquisite.” She dips her head and kisses Crowley’s brow. “I do so love to see you so happy.”

“Ssssoft,” Crowley murmurs, though she pauses, frowning, squinting.

There are flowers dotted above them.

Shouldn’t be.

With effort, she sits up a little way – still leaning into the angel – and stares.

“Angel…”

“Hm?”

She points, words still a bit of a way off. Apple tree. Got flowers on it. Blooming, sweet-scented, filling the air with it.

“Oh!” Aziraphale beams. “Yes! It started doing that when I was doing your hair. Isn’t it lovely?”

A month and more early. “Ng!” She nudges the angel’s belly. “S’bad! Still got frost!”

“Don’t blame me,” Aziraphale laughs, scooping her closer. “You’re the one who communicates with plants.”

Crowley stares at her, then groans, dropping back into her embrace, sticks her face into the soft curve of Aziraphale’s neck. “Ng,” she grumbles. “Still your fault.”

Aziraphale chuckles, warm and rich against her hair. “I’m glad,” she confides, tracking the delicate paths pressed into Crowley’s skin with her finger, “that you were so happy.”

Crowley hisses in indignation and nibbles at her neck. “Ssssssssssoft,” she accuses, snuggling closer.

Aziraphale only laughs and drapes a leg possessively over Crowley’s sprawled, supine body. “Ineffably so.


End file.
